


the perp

by thesurielships



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Detective Feyre, F/M, Humor, Inspired by Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Perp Rhysand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24772969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesurielships/pseuds/thesurielships
Summary: Brooklyn 99 au where Rhysand is the bad guy.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

“So, ladies. How tall was this man?”

“I’d say… 6 feet?” Dora answered.

“He had to be at least 6’3”,” the woman at her right – _Stella,_ Feyre read on her badge _–_ corrected.

“He was just the right height for the perfect hug: his chin on the top of your head, your nose nuzzling the crook of his neck.”

Feyre gave Clover a weird look. It wasn’t every day that the victim swooned over the criminal. “How about his physique? Was he of average build? Lean? Overweight?”

“He looked like the kind of guy who could fuck you standing up with nothing but those muscled arms holding you,” Stella smirked.

Feyre choked on air. “So he was well built?”

“He looked like he worked out,” answered Dora, her primly folded hands in her lap a stark contrast to the glazed look in her employee’s eyes.

“Oh yes, he definitely does,” Stella sighed dreamily. “He probably has the stamina of a stallion.”

This time, Feyre chose to ignore the comment. “What color was his skin?”

“Brown,” “Olive,” “Caramel,” the three ladies answered at once, then started laughing at their different replies.

“I wouldn’t call his skin tone brown,” Clover said in a soft voice. “It makes it sound dull. His skin was shiny and seemed well moisturized. It was olive.”

“Caramel, I say,” Stella contradicted. “Exactly like The Morrigan’s skin. You know, the famous singer?”

Clover leaned forward to look at Stella. “The one who sang _Girls like Girls like Boys_?”

“The one who interrupted her conservative father mid-speech in his presidential campaign to come out of the closet?” asked Dora.

“Yes,” Stella nodded. “It was dope.”

“The song or the coming out?” Clover inquired.

“Both, of – ”

“Ladies,” Feyre interrupted, ignoring Stella’s glare. “Let’s focus on our perp, shall we?”

“Of course, officer,” Dora replied, her hands still firmly folded in her lap.

“So, our perp was tall, well built, with brown skin,” Feyre summarised, her pointed look warning the women against any frivolous interruption.

They nodded.

“What color was his hair?”

“Black,” Dora replied immedialtely.

“It gleamed blue in the sunlight,” Clover put in.

“I thought the perp broke into your shop at night?”

“Well, yes,” she conceded, her face flushing. “But it looked like it would glow blue in the sun.”

“I agree,” nodded Dora. “It had a blue tint that I would kill for,” she added in her monotone voice.

“Yas, girl,” interjected Stella. “I was so jealous. I would’ve given him all my money in exchange for his hair. And did you see his brows?”

“They were on fleek,” replied Clover.

“No way he doesn’t wax them,” affirmed Stella.

“I’d say he threads them,” said Dora.

Feyre jotted down _groomed brows_ under _tall man, muscles, brown (caramel) skin_ and _black (gleams blue??? lol) hair_.

“What about his eyes?”

The three women all seemed to zone out at the question.

“Ladies?”

“His eyes were like the night sky on the winter solstice, seen from my grandmother’s cottage in the countryside,” Clover said with a sigh.

“They were blue,” Dora clarified.

“Blue? More like deep violet, the color of my favorite vibrator,” Stella said in a sleazy voice, winking at Feyre.

Feyre frowned. She was honestly starting to feel a little sorry for this guy.

“Any other characteristic features? A special scar? A tattoo, maybe?”

“Yes! He did have a tattoo,” Dora replied.

“It peeked out the top of his shirt,” Stella said.

Clover nodded. “Black whorls that spanned the top of his chest. They looked like marks of an ancient language.”

“Okay. That will be all for the physical description. Now tell me about the break in.”

“We already told detective Tamlin all about it.”

Feyre shot Stella a sweet smile. “So you did. But I am the primary officer on this case, and detective Rosetool is on another case of his own, so I’m going to need you to answer some of my questions.”

“No problem, detective,” Dora said quickly, subtly pinching Stella’s side. It was not at all subtle as Stella almost jumped off her seat with a loud yelp.

Feyre and Dora paid her no heed.

“It happened yesterday. On Saturday, December 11th, to be precise. Correct?”

“Yes. We closed the shop at 9pm, like we always do, and stayed inside to clean up. At about 9:30, I heard a loud noise.”

“Something crashed in Dora’s office,” confirmed Clover.

“We immediately thought it was a thief who wanted to steal money from the safe. I keep weapons here – ”

Feyre lifted a brow.

“Nothing too lethal,” Dora reassured her, though Feyre didn’t miss the faint smirk pulling at the edge of her lips. “A few baseball bats, Tasers, pepper spray…”

“And a gun in Dora’s office,” added Clover, avoiding her employer’s glare.

“Anyway,” Dora went on. “We each grabbed a baseball bat, Stella took the Taser and Clover got the pepper spray –”

“You only had a baseball bat?”

“Of course not. I always have a knife strapped on my thigh at all times.”

Feyre suppressed a smile. “Naturally.”

She could just see her co-worker Amren nodding with approval. _“What kind of woman doesn’t have an axe?”_ she had once asked her, and if that wasn’t Amren in a sentence, she didn’t know what was.

Dora’s chin rose slightly in defiance. Her hands were still folded in her lap. The woman’s stillness was unnerving.

“We ran into the office, screaming, hoping to scare the thief into a heart attack.”

This time, Feyre couldn’t stop her smile. “I suppose that tactic didn’t work for you?”

“Not one bit,” nodded Dora. “But he did drop my purse.”

“He was holding your purse?”

“Yes. Would you believe it? The safe was right there, wide open –”

Feyre was incredulous. “Why was the safe open?”

“Why would I close it? It’s in my office, and I always lock the door.”

“Of course,” the detective murmured, flabbergasted.

“He completely ignored the safe, and was instead looking through my purse.”

“Was there something valuable in it?”

“Aside from my mostly empty wallet, my chap stick, my car keys, my home keys, my safe keys, my dog house’s keys, my ex’s spare car keys –”

“Aside from the keys,” Feyre interrupted Dora’s monologue.

“my daughter’s bedroom keys,” Dora went on, “and my Swiss knife, nothing worth stealing.”

Feyre nodded, quickly scribbling all of the information down in her notebook. “What did he do when you caught him?”

“He said hello –”

“He didn’t say it, he _purred_ it,” rectified Stella.

“He purred hello,” Dora amended, “and apologised for inconveniencing us. Then he jumped out the window.”

“And disappeared into the night, swallowed by the shadows,” Clover finished in a dramatic undertone.

“What did he take from your purse?”

“Nothing. I searched all of my office and nothing was missing.”

Feyre’s gut was starting to hum with anticipation, excitement buzzing through her at the prospect of an intriguing case. “Interesting. You gave your purse to forensics, right?”

“Yes, but you won’t find any fingerprints on it because he was wearing gloves.”

“Leather gloves,” Clover put in.

“Do you have any surveillance cameras in the shop?”

“Yes, but they were off.”

Feyre wanted to scream. “Why?”

“I’m camera shy,” mumbled Clover.

“They always get my bad side, for some reason,” Stella added.

“And I trust my customers and my employees,” finished Dora.

“Great,” Feyre said, standing up. “Thank you for your assistance, ladies.”

They nodded in response.

She looked at Dora. “Madam, I’ll keep you updated about the details of the case.”

“Thank you, detective,” she replied as she shook her hand.

* * *

Half an hour later found Feyre back in the precinct. She was practically giddy with excitement. Rare were the cases that required her to sketch a perp, but when it happened, it was always her favorite part of the investigation. Imagining the details of someone’s face based on multiple opinions was fun, because it wasn’t so much guessing as calculating the correct features to make a harmonious face. It was also very based on instinct and trial and error, as it could take her hours and multiple attempts to come up with a drawing that felt right. This perp, with his allegedly blue hair and violet eyes, would be a great challenge to tackle.

She got off the elevator, humming a crooked tune. She found Tamlin standing at her desk, hands planted on his hips, his expression stern. “Feyre, you’re late.”

Her mood soured. “It’s Detective Archeron to you, Rosetool.”

“Feyre, that’s enough. How much longer is this phase going to last? I already bought a house and it’s ready to welcome you as its mistress.”

“Tamlin,” her voice was quiet but full of venom as she had to repeat what she’d already told him multiple times since their break up three months earlier, “being in charge of a household does not interest me, especially not yours. And stop ambushing me in the precinct. I do not answer to you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Quit the charade, sweetheart. What else are you gonna do with your life? Be a cop?” he snorted dismissively.

Feyre’s anger flared. “I _am_ a cop,” she said as she twisted his arm behind his back and slammed him against the wall near her desk. She pressed her gun at the base of his spine and whispered in his ear, “You would do well to remember that.”

She kept him there for a few delicious seconds; savoring how his pulse quickened against the fingertips she dug into his forearm.

When she let him go, he collapsed on the floor, hand on his heart as he struggled to catch his breath. His glare was a hot brand on her back as she sat at her desk and grabbed her sketchbook.

She didn’t spare him a glance as she said in a level voice, “Piss off, Rose _tool_. There is some police work I need to do. And next time, stay off my cases.”

How long it took him to leave, she would never know. She had already started drawing the mysterious man and she watched, enraptured, as stroke after stroke tendrils of darkness swirled around his feet and wings grew out of the shadows behind his back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am practically making up laws in this. I have no idea how police and justice work in the US, nor in my country tbh, so please hold your disbelief. This is inspired by Brooklyn 99. If you haven’t watched it, you should.

An insistent knock startled Feyre out of her creative trance. She looked up to her boss’s usual stoic face.

“Captain Azriel,” she nodded in acknowledgement, trying to calm her panic down. He had only knocked once on her desk and folded his arms behind his back. That was never a good sign.

“My office. Now.”

Feyre blinked at his retreating figure. He hadn’t returned her acknowledgement. _That_ was a terrible sign. She quickly followed him to his office as there was nothing he hated more than tardiness.

“Yes, Captain?”

He was already in his seat, hands steepled on his desk. “Close the door, detective.”

She did, noticing the keen gaze Lucien kept directed their way. She smiled and closed the blinds, too.

“Take a seat.”

She did, and then looked at the captain expectantly.

“Did you threaten a fellow officer with a gun?”

Feyre’s blood froze. “Captain, I - ”

“I have just received an official complaint from Detective Rosetool stating that you twisted his arm behind his back, pressed him against a wall and put a gun to his head.”

“It wasn’t to his head,” Feyre couldn’t help arguing. “It was to his spine.”

The captain leaned back in his seat, his expression unchanging.

“I didn’t want to kill him, only paralyse him.” Even she knew she sounded bratty.

“So you would have willingly maimed a fellow officer?”

“I didn’t actually do it, now did I? Besides, if we’re at the stage of filing official complaints, I might as well present one myself. Detective Rosetool is a sexist asshole who thinks that our past relationship gives him the right to get involved in my cases, to ask about my comings and goings, to follow me home and threaten other male fellow officers who dare speak to me. He has abused me multiple times prior to our break up, and I have several scars and medical reports to prove it.”

Feyre was breathing hard. She had stood up at some point during her tirade, and was ready to submit her resignation and storm off this Cauldron damned precinct if she had to. Why she hadn’t reported Tamlin before, or left all of it behind, she didn’t know. Her throat was starting to close up, tears pricking her eyes. But she would not break down in front of her superior officer. She. Would. Not.

“Alright.”

Feyre blinked. “Alright?”

The captain’s gaze was steady, either oblivious to the storm of emotions coursing through her or wisely choosing not to comment on it. “I will submit your formal complaint.”

“What about Tamlin’s?”

“As it is not entirely truthful, I have the right to refuse to forward it.”

Feyre could not believe her ears. “Why are you doing this?”

“Yours is not the first complaint I have received about detective Rosetool. Many others have spoken up about his inappropriate behavior before, and his record is not as clean as he would like it to be.”

“Sir,” her voice was shaky with unshed tears. “You do realize that his dad is the former NYPD commissioner, right? This could get you in trouble.”

Captain Azriel’s smile was small and full of menace as he said, “Do not worry about it, detective Archeron. I have my ways.”

* * *

The day after her intriguing conversation with the hairdressers at Dora’s, and her sob fest following her talk with Captain Azriel, Feyre went around the shops in that neighborhood looking for eye witnesses. She did not use her sketch, however, as that would have been a little unprofessional. _And embarrassing_ , she thought as she remembered the powerful body, the sexy smirk and the violet eyes she had drawn the previous night in the privacy of her own apartment. Then her thoughts drifted to the dream she’d had of being pressed against a tattooed chest and cocooned in huge membranous wings.

And touched in places she hadn’t been touched in a while.

“… gone home by then. Detective?”

She nodded absently. If she hadn’t been so focused on hiding her flushed face behind her hair as she pretended to write something down in her notebook, she would have noticed the nervousness radiating off the owner of the sea food restaurant. He kept wringing his hands, his forehead shone with sweat and his feet were shifting constantly.

“Detective, actually…”

Feyre’s head snapped up at the careful tone. “Yes?”

“There is one more bit of information that might help you, but I don’t know if I can…” he trailed off with a wince.

“No one will know you told me, Mr. Varian.”

He swallowed audibly, then seemed to steel himself. “It’s about Dora, the owner of the salon.”

She nodded.

He hesitated, glancing at the salon behind her. Feyre tried her best to look reassuring.

“Her boyfriend is in the mafia.”

She held her breath. “Do you know which one?”

He cleared his throat. Once. Twice. “Actually… he’s the head of Hybern.”

Feyre felt like she went fishing for eels and caught a shark instead. “Are you certain?”

“I see him leaving her salon at 11:15 every night.”

She wanted to whoop and jump around in joy. David Hybern was just the kind of big fish she needed to catch to get her a promotion, hopefully away from the flower tool. “Thank you, Mr. Varian. You’re doing this city a great favor.”

 _And me_ , she thought, giggling internally, before mentally scolding herself for her selfishness.

“Just get him off these streets,” the chef answered wearily. “He strikes terror in everyone’s hearts. My kids can’t even sleep these days.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Varian. We will try our best to put this criminal behind bars.”

* * *

“So I heard our perp is quite the hunk.”

Feyre snorted. “They said he had violet eyes and blue hair.”

“Maybe he’s not human. Maybe he’s a vampire,” her partner, Suriel, speculated. “Or a faerie. My chaman told me those are on quite the rampage lately.”

Feyre rolled her eyes.

“What? A thief who doesn’t steal anything, who is so hot he charmed the pants off his victims, and who disappears into the night. Doesn’t this sound fantastical to you?”

“One, maybe he was just there to gather intel, and he’s planning his heist for later. Two, there is such a thing as Stockholm’s syndrome. And three, at least half of our perps disappear into the night.”

“Why would someone plan a heist on a hairdressing salon?” Suriel’s tone was dismissive. “It’s not even that fancy.”

Feyre kept silent, her eyes fixed on said salon.

“You know something, don’t you? There is more to this case that you’re not telling me.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve been there, Suriel. Next time, don’t leave me to interrogate moonstruck women alone.”

“It was a bad day for Pisces! I couldn’t get out of the house.”

“There is no such thing as astrologically impaired days, Suriel.”

Suriel glowered. She hated when her partner dismissed her beliefs, and Feyre let her rant about astrology more often than not; but when it got in the way of their job, she drew the line.

“So, why are we on watch duty?”

Feyre’s eyes roamed the street, lingering on the dark corners and on the roofs surrounding Dora’s. “I told you he might be planning a heist.”

“Cut the crap.”

“Dora is dating David Hybern.”

Suriel gasped.

“He supposedly leaves the salon every night at 11:15pm.”

Detective Pisces, as she liked to call herself, was now bouncing in her seat. “So we’re here for Hybern, not the faerie hunk?”

“I don’t know. The robbery is weird. Maybe it’s linked to Hybern. Maybe our perp is in a rival gang and wanted to use Hybern’s girlfriend as leverage.”

“But he didn’t do anything to Dora. You said he even apologised.”

“Maybe he was looking for drugs? I mean Hybern is one of the biggest Fairy Wine suppliers in Velaris.” She ignored Suriel’s meaningful glance at the drug she mentioned.

“But why would he look for it in Dora’s purse?”

Feyre was spared from admitting her lack of ideas as she saw a silhouette pass near the window.

“Did you see that?” Suriel asked.

They were out the car and halfway to the salon before Feyre could answer. When they were five meters away from the front door, the lights were turned on. Feyre could just make out three silhouettes in Dora’s office. Suriel gestured for her to go in first, signaling that she’d come in through the back door, as was their usual modus operandi. Feyre nodded, grabbed her gun, and hurried in the salon. The main room was dark, but she could see enough to tell that nothing was amiss. The office was quiet. Feyre stuck to the wall, carefully nudging the door open with her foot.

“Who’s there?” asked a gruff male voice.

She held her breath.

“Do come in, officer. We were awaiting your arrival.” This time, the voice was deep and husky and caused a shiver to run down Feyre’s spine.

She braced herself, then burst into the room, gun cocked in her hands. She shifted it between the three people.

“NYPD, freeze!”

“If your strategy was to scare us into a heartattack, detective, it only worked on me,” Dora stated dryly from where she was held at gunpoint by none other than David Hybern himself. Feyre fixed her gun in his direction.

“Pointing your gun at the first person you see. Not a smart tactic, detective,” mused the husky voice from her right.

She slowly turned her head, almost dropping the gun she kept pointed at Hybern as her eyes beheld the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He was tall and tanned like he just got back from a vacation in Malibu. His muscled, _shirtless_ chest bore an intricate tattoo. She hated to admit it, but his black hair did gleam blue. And the eyes that were studying her as meticulously as she had him were indeed violet.

There was only one small detail that ruined the wonderful portrait.

The faerie hunk had a gun pointed at her head.


End file.
